


This moment's soon gone

by ttired



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, also his accent uncanny vallies me, in the front seat of a porsche carrera, james rossiter is the most perpetually smug shitbox on the planet, kind of filthy again that keeps happening for some reason, really really mild D/s, this is uh, when ur porn as sloppy as your life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/pseuds/ttired
Summary: “Don’t you have someone you can pay to do… all this?” Jev asks after a few more minutes, walking around and easing himself into the passenger’s seat without invitation.“I mean, sure,” Andre says, pausing to sit back and wipe the sweat generated by the work lights and exertion off his forehead. He turns to look at Jev, knocks his knee into the Frenchman’s. “But why? Don’t you ever get sick of just being expected to drive a car? Haven’t you ever wanted to… own one? Put your own hands to work on one?”--Not really enough space to fuck in the backseat of a Carrera, but just the right amount of space for other things.





	This moment's soon gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [higgsbosonblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/gifts).



> HBB prompted a beej fic, HBB got herself a beej fic. It's more than 1k, so it gets its own listing instead of going in the ficlet drawer. HBB -- you're a terrible influence, but fuck if your ideas aren't a lot of fun.
> 
> Title from "Mustn't Hurry" by Fever Ray.
> 
> Content warnings in full at the end.

When André doesn't respond to his text message, Jean-Éric sighs and looks up Rossiter’s number, writes out the request for directions and waits, hoping the man's actually awake this early in the morning. It doesn't take long to get a slightly bemused response, which Jev rolls his eyes at, but follows the instructions James texts him back nevertheless as carefully as possible. The thought of having to call or text Rossiter for further clarification sits unpleasantly with him at best. The garage isn’t the easiest thing in the world to find, and although Jev finds himself exasperated, he’s also realises that he shouldn’t have expected anything less from André and his merry band of petrolheads. It takes two wrong turns and almost getting stuck in a cow pasture, but he makes it -- the prefab steel corrugated bastion sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the shrubbery and patches of wild red poppies

He spies André’s truck, which is reassuring, parks his rental next to it, and then climbs out and towards the only regular-sized door he spots along the far wall.

The door is unlocked although the knob itself is a little sticky and the door hard to wrench open; Jean-Éric is a little surprised the hinges don’t squeak, but past that initial brute force to open it, he lets himself in and shuts the door without much fuss. The whole garage smells like petrol, engine oil, and carnauba, which as Jev glances around at the handful of vintage Porsches, makes a lot of sense. The lots are numbered along the wall, some with names, illuminated by overhanging fluorescent lamps designed purpose-specifically to help people identify the car lots in relative darkness. Not that Jean-Éric really needs to inspect each lot to find his teammate -- there’s only one car in a brilliant red that has stand lighting and carts pulled in around it. All four doors are open, with the interior overhead light illuminated, and even if that weren’t the most obvious giveaway, the radio of the car is turned on to some radio channel blaring cumbia music which makes Jev huff out a laugh, even if he’s much too far away for André to hear him.

He walks over, the shadows hiding him, and comes upon André bent over, face creased with concentration, some sort of chiseling tool in his mouth and sanding down the edges of some zebrawood paneling that he’s trying to fit into the front instrument dash. He’s humming, on-key -- which Jev’s vaguely impressed by -- but off-beat to the up-tempo dance music blaring from the speakers.

“Good way to zap your battery,” Jev opens with after a minute of watching André. “Why don’t you just play music with your phone?”

André looks towards him, pursing his lips, and spits the tool out onto his lap to answer. “I don’t have this kind of music on my phone, I can always give myself a jump if it comes to that, and besides, I like radio stations. You’re late.”

“I thought you meant your garage at home,” Jean-Éric shrugs. André’s hardly one to talk about lateness, but there’s late and then there’s three hours after the agreed time, so he holds his tongue and opts to bypass the saga of trying to find this place and the irritating fact that André hasn't been checking his phone. “Sorry.”

“I would never keep a car like this at my house, I can’t control the humidity,” André says, sounding vaguely scandalized. “Now you’re going to have to wait, I need to finish this detailing.”

“Don’t you have someone you can pay to do… all this?” Jev asks after a few more minutes, walking around and easing himself into the passenger’s seat without invitation.

If his decision to sit in the car bothers André, it doesn’t show on his face, which Jev is glad about. He doesn’t mind waiting out this impulse improvement work to the Carrera at all, but if he’s being forced to sit and watch, he’d rather watch André up close. The way he has such precise control over the movement of his hands as he sands down the curved edge meant to fit against the air-flow outlets is mesmerizing, how each stroke has a near-mechanised start and end point with each pass of the sandpaper so the back and forth runs together like clockwork -- Jean-Éric almost doesn’t hear André’s response, slow-coming as it is.

“I mean, sure,” André says, pausing to sit back and wipe the sweat generated by the work lights and exertion off his forehead. He turns to look at Jev, knocks his knee into the Frenchman’s. “But why? Don’t you ever get sick of just being expected to drive a car? Haven’t you ever wanted to… own one? Put your own hands to work on one?”

Jean-Éric finds himself thinking of his sister. He remembers the way her hand had stroked across the ribs and flank of the horse he’d decided to buy for her, not knowing what else to do with the bonus he’d gotten from G-Drive after Le Mans. It had been a surprise gift, but he’d been sure in knowing that she’d take the opportunity seriously, that she’d truly take care of the brilliantly spirited young stallion even if she hadn’t precisely asked for the responsibility.

“I can’t say I ever have,” Jev says slowly, trying to soften the admission with a smile. “But it doesn’t mean I won’t, one day. Maybe I’m just waiting for the right thing to fall into my lap.”

“Hmm,” André says, narrowing his eyes slightly.

They’re stuck for a moment with nothing but an oddly tense gaze between them, until André reaches over and takes Jev’s hand, running his thumb over his knuckles, before placing it where he’d previously been keeping the paneling aloft with one of his own. “Here, hold this in place for me, I’m going to glue it on now.”

It startles Jean-Éric slightly, but he does as he’s told. He shifts forwards slightly in the passenger seat as he goes to brace the careful woodwork with both hands to make it curve as it should to the plastic instrumentation. André leans out of the driver’s seat to fumble around in an already-open tool drawer and comes back with a small glue dispenser. He shakes it, uncaps it with his teeth, and then squeezes delicately to begin the slow and tedious process of creating a seam just as he wants along the piece Jev’s holding up for him.

Jean-Éric’s not sure how much time passes, catching himself holding his breath more than once, stiff with the anxiety of somehow jolting the woodwork out of place and having André’s whole morning be for nothing. André’s still humming now and then, but with less vigor, tongue poking out slightly around the cap as he carefully applies the adhesive. He ducks in between Jev’s arms at one point to complete the seam, grinning roguishly whilst scant inches away from his face before going back to his work. Jean-Éric bites down on a laugh, instead choosing to focus on the way the other man’s body heat makes him wish he could drop his hands and press himself along his back. It’s chilly and dry in the garage, compared to the rampant humidity of the Walloon summer, and the contrast is threatening to send a shiver down Jean-Éric’s spine.

“Hey, have you ever fucked someone in this thing?” Jev asks without thinking the question entirely through, and it makes André pause what he’s doing.

“Yes,” he says after a second, craning his head to make eye contact again, and Jev does shiver this time, much to his own embarrassment -- not completely sure what he hopes to gain here. “But not in a while, the backseat of the 964’s a little cramped for that actually.”

André holds his gaze again for a moment, openly considering, and Jean-Éric is simultaneously gripped with the need to look away and the hope that André won’t, that he’ll instead take the light innuendo and push back. Just as Jean-Éric starts to curl his fingers against the paneling in an effort to stop himself from moving... forwards? Away? God knows, but almost certainly disastrous no matter which direction and with what intent, André tuts and flicks at the tops of his hands.

“Keep still, we’re almost done,” André says, turning back to the dash, a small half-smile coloring his face even as he keeps is tone mild.

Jean-Éric had decided, done with G-Drive and Austria, to drive back to France; opting for the two-day trip solo to get his back on right after the win at Red Bull Ring seemed greatly preferable to the company of Andréa’s odd youthfulness and the weight of Roman’s proprietous touch. Initially intending to head to Pontoise, Jev had thought he’d maybe he’d divert and spend a few days in Paris sleeping on the couch at his sister’s flat -- but André had texted him out of the blue.

Jev had been startled enough to double-check that André wasn’t just responding to a text that hadn’t sent off properly at the end of the season -- he’d expected something close to radio silence from the German for at least a few weeks, the way things go sometimes in his experience when a great but sudden intimacy is given reason to end. It wasn’t exactly that Jean-Éric had wanted or hoped for no communication over the summer -- or at least until August -- but the thing between him and André, stretched thin on the promise of a long off-season, seemed so fragile that if space had been what André had wanted, if it had been what André had needed, Jean-Éric was prepared to give him all the time in the world.

But there it had been, the text -- an hour from the Luxembourg border. _hey, are you around? Want to join me and fuck off for the weekend in my porsche_

Jean-Éric had pulled over, pushed up his sunglasses just to read the message again before replying.

_which porsche? i’m not really that close to Monaco_

And in response, barely a minute later: _which one??? The only one that matters_  
And right after: _and that’s ok I’m in Belgium with it at the moment and more fun to drive it through the ardennes than up and down Mont Agel anyway, can you make it by tomorrow 7am? You have the address right_

And Jean-Éric could, and he did have André’s address, so he’d thumbed in _yes_ and put a new destination in the GPS, simple as that, refusing to overthink it.

Jean-Éric hadn’t thought -- well, fuck what should he have really thought? Half of his brain had been convinced the whole thing was a hallucination anyway, that he’d be showing up to an empty house, or André in the middle of something else entirely (with someone else entirely, if Jev was honest, and maybe, maybe he wasn’t quite ready to be faced with the reality of that just yet), but here he was, helping André do work on his Carrera, the sudden, bracing intimacy of close quarters, of being almost on top of the German quite literally after Jev spent time preparing himself for nothing of the sort until Silverstone -- he catches himself breathing a little faster, heart beating in a way he can feel in his stomach. He’s not… exactly anxious, not yet, but he feels a little wrung out, needing something beyond this tease at affection. He could’ve handled André texting him for a booty call, it still wouldn’t have thrown him off as much as what they’re doing now, André’s fingers brushing against the inside of Jev’s forearms as he finishes up the application of the epoxy, the smell of maca from either André’s deodorant or his shave cream stupidly, damningly familiar. 

André’s recapping the Locktite, so Jev feels justified in breaking the silence again.

“So, did you want to drive somewhere for brunch, or --”

“You can move your hands,” André interrupts him to say, and Jev realizes he’s still leaning forwards awkwardly, and jerks back at that, rolling his shoulders out a bit to ease the cramp that’s lingering there. “And sure, we should eat but since you brought up sex -- you know what I haven’t done? Gotten a blow job in this coupé.”

Jean-Éric feels himself blinking stupidly, thrown by the return of the subject.

“Not exactly roomy either,” André shrugs, butterflying his knees open and shut. “But if you were looking for something to start the weekend off right, we could make it work.”

He punctuates the statement by tossing the the tube of adhesive haphazardly towards the tool cart whilst simultaneously sliding the driver’s seat back as far as it’ll go. When it jolts to a stop, he looks over at Jev, that same amused look on his face, and -- Jev knows this dance. Back at the start of the season when it was still a push and pull, and every come-on was just as easily shrugged off as a joke, the twinkle in André’s eye was just as often a source of extreme frustration as it was promise. Jean-Éric’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed that André’s gone back to giving him the room to laugh the whole thing off.

He also feels like André is testing him, but on what -- he’s not exactly sure.

“Just seeing you,” Jean-Éric starts, and then can’t make himself continue. Tries to make sense of his thoughts, to parse the tug between wanting to have André’s hands on him with the physical ache of being around him again. “I missed you.”

It’s maybe a little too honest given how little time has passed since the end of the season, since spending a Monday night in JFK sending face-swap snaps of Lucas back and forth between them when Lucas wasn’t paying enough attention to realize he was being recorded, trying not to giggle like schoolboys as each one stumbled them closer towards the absurd. 

André looks mostly like he’s trying not to laugh, but it’s not mean -- Jean-Éric’s seen him mean -- and suppresses an involuntary noise that probably started life off as a snort into a sigh before reaching over the console to haul Jev over onto him by his belt loops.

“It’s only been three weeks,” André chides, tugging impatiently as Jean-Éric rolls his eyes but cooperates.

Or well, mostly -- Jev swears under his breath as his hip bangs into the stick shift more forcefully than he’d like, trying to avoid knocking his head on the ceiling of the Porsche. He’s not really properly settled on André’s lap, his legs straddling the driver’s seat, his neck having to stay bent at a noticeable angle just to accommodate the position. Jev raises his eyebrows as André tilts his chin up and smirks, and gets cut off by the German just as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t bitch,” André snorts.

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one risking a sore neck,” Jev counters.

“You could opt for sore knees instead, you know,” André says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Plenty of space for you between my legs.”

Jean-Éric lets out an incredulous huff of laughter because Jesus is André persistent when he wants to be -- but also, _is_ he going to do this? Even without the sort of assurances... well, the assurances he’d like, he definitely doesn’t need them per se; André’s solid enough under the backs of his thighs and he hasn’t gotten any uglier since the last time Jev saw him and besides all that, his fingers itch with the need to touch. He looks André in the eye as he folds his legs back around, not much caring if he accidentally kicks the older man in the ribs once or twice in the process, and slides himself down and backwards, palms on the inside of André's knees.

“I know it’s only been three weeks,” Jean-Éric finds himself continuing, shrugging slightly. “I still missed you.”

André slides his hands into Jean-Éric’s hair, something more serious but no less fond coloring his face for a minute. “And I don’t invite people to vacation with me for the weekend just because I miss their mouths.”

Jean-Éric tilts his chin slightly and André’s grip eases enough to let him move to mouth at André’s thumb, nipping lightly. André sighs at that, shifting in his seat and splaying his legs out just a little wider.

“Although I really do like your fucking mouth,” André continues after a second of contemplation, and Jev stops what he’s doing to grin, a bit embarrassed at how genuinely pleased the admission makes him.

He reaches out to grab André by his belt and hauls him forwards in his seat, smile turning a bit cheeky as André lets out a surprised grunt as he goes. He unthreads the leather of the belt through the buckle, working open the buttons of André's fly, André lifting his hips up slightly to aid in Jean-Éric’s effort to slide his jeans down over his ass and to his knees. The cotton of his briefs is soft and worn thin by washes, the shape of his dick is clearly outlined by the threadbare fabric. It’s simple and satisfying for Jev to drag his fingers up the length of André’s cock, rub the edge of his nail along the ridge of the crown -- sensation blunted by the underwear but enough to get André to hiss.

“Let’s make up for lost time then, hmm?” Jean-Éric says, glancing up from what he’s doing as he bends to replace his fingers with his tongue.

The fabric soaks through with his spit easily, and it's not long before all Jev can taste sucking through the cotton is a bitter burst of salt anytime time he focuses on working the jut of the head of André's cock into his mouth despite the restriction of his underwear. Jean-Éric gets his hands under André's thighs, hitching him further towards where he’s crouched as best as he can. He digs his fingers into the soft skin there, the twitch of André's thighs tensing feeding his enthusiasm as much as the groans André's slowly becoming less effective at keeping in. Jev really does want to stop prolonging the tease, to finally put skin to skin, but a part of his lizard brain is sharply insisting on seeing if he can make André ask for it. Jev frees André's balls with a tug of his teeth on the elastic of the briefs, sucks one side gently into his mouth -- André's hips jerk forwards once, which is a _wildly_ gratifying reaction before Jean-Éric feels himself pulled up by the ears. It hurts enough that he almost complains, but before he can so much as get a word out edgewise, André is biting at his mouth, kissing him unforgivingly the second he can angle them together properly, thrusting against the line of Jev’s hip.

Jean-Éric can barely breathe around the way André's licking into his mouth, gasping by the time André backs off enough to mutter in an irritated tone of voice: "Stop fucking around and suck my dick."

And it might be missing a please or anything resembling manners, but it has heat and an edge that sparks along the base of Jean-Éric's spine. He's a little sloppy on the first few attempts to get André into his mouth, overtaken by a sense of urgency he’d rather not examine, fighting to swallow around André as he tugs the elastic of his underwear down properly. He has to pull off to cough choking a little on his own spit, frustrated that his own arousal and eagerness is eroding his technique.

André wraps a hand around the back of Jean-Éric's neck, his other hand sliding down to circle around the base of his cock, and doesn't let Jev pull completely off as he splutters slightly, feeling himself get embarrassingly snotty as tears prick his eyes thanks to his gag reflex. He makes a questioning noise around André, unable to really properly look up at him, and André just squeezes at the back of Jean-Éric's neck in response, and says "Breathe," sounding remarkably collected considering how goddamn hard he his in Jev's mouth, and -- Jean-Éric blinks, and does, pulling in a decent breath between what he can get in through his mouth and and nose.

"Good," André sighs. "Now, go slowly; find your pace."

Jean-Éric balks a little at that, almost wants to pull off to complain that he doesn't need instructions for god's sake -- André certainly hadn't had any complaints the last time they'd done this but -- but André doesn't give Jev the time, contrary to his words, choosing to feed his cock back into Jev's mouth fucking forwards with his hips whilst preventing Jean-Éric from pulling back, steady in his grip at the base of Jev's skull. And Jean-Éric can breathe, sort of, if he times it just right; André not making it easy but not making it impossible just the same.

André coaches him into a rhythm before Jev's really realized it, and just as it's getting comfortable enough not to be a knife’s-edge dance with his ability to get enough oxygen, André moves his hand away from the base of his cock. He drags his fingers, sticky with the accumulated spit and precome, across Jean-Éric's jaw, moving instead to pet at the seam of Jean-Éric's lips around him.

"Easy," André gasps. "Let's see you take it, c'mon --"

And knowing what André wants, _wanting_ what André wants, still doesn't stop heat from crawling onto Jean-Éric’s face as André eases up on his grip, no longer holding him at the mercy of his thrusts. André moves his fingers almost gently through Jean-Éric's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and given the leeway, Jev pulls back almost all the way, glancing up through his lashes and -- the sight of André, tongue curling over his bottom lip, teeth digging in. He’s helpless to stop a small, greedy whine from escaping, watching as André’s gaze soften and drift from the sensation. 

"C'mon," André repeats, voice sliding just sideways of a moan. "C'mon, c'mon, I wanna feel myself fuck your throat, c'mon --"

And Jean-Éric obliges him, squeezing his eyes shut now in concentration -- keeping tight, tight control over his descent, pausing slightly, but managing to work himself down until his nose is right up against the flat planes of André's skin. André grunts, sits up slightly, but controls himself well enough not to thrust forwards. Jean-Éric hums, and swallows, goosebumps crawling all over his skin at the way that makes André curse and laugh helplessly.

"Jesus, I'm gonna come if you keep --"

Jean-Éric groans, blinks, knows he needs air from the way floaters are starting to drift into his field of vision -- but he wants, _god_ he wants André to come like this; he ignores the way spit is pooling and running down his chin, and works his throat swallowing around André again, and again, and --

André does buck at that, bites out an "oh fuck--" and comes, pulling back involuntarily. The sudden withdrawal causes Jev to start coughing in an appallingly wheezy fashion, some of André's come landing on his cheek.

André collapses back into the seat, loose and lazy with orgasm, and Jean-Éric presses the side of his face to one of his half-bare thighs, struggling a bit to slow his breathing down, and look -- he wants to wait, but there's a grinding urgency to how ridiculously aroused he is right now, the seam of his jeans pressing into his erection like a bruise. He keeps his face in André's lap, but his hands drop to his own fly, and it's almost no time despite shaky fingers before he's able to make enough room to get a grip on himself, groaning at the combined pressure of his own palm and the way he's pressed against the line of André's leg.

André lifts his head up to watch him, and Jev's certainly felt more graceful than he does now essentially rutting against André's shin, but he's really close to coming and can't collect himself enough to find the shame to give a damn. André licks his lips, cups Jean-Éric's cheek, smearing a bit of the drying come with his fingers, before letting his hand drift down to hold -- gently, God, but still _still_ \-- Jean-Éric by the throat.

Jean-Éric can't stop his eyes from rolling back a little as he whines hoarsely and comes trapped between his hand, his jeans, and André's touch.

They stay like that for a moment, Jean-Éric only now realizing the radio is still on -- the suddenness of the music reentering his peripheral awareness jarring. He laughs, trying to tamp down on the slightly hysterical edge it takes, the absurdity of the upbeat music highlighting the weirdly experimental thrill of the whole situation.

"Can we please change the music before we go to breakfast?" he asks André, trying not to giggle.

André pets him, which Jean-Éric finds almost comforting, and sighs like Jev's asked him to move mountains or do an extra shift in the simulator. "If you want to pick the music, I'm picking the restaurant."

Jean-Éric looks up at him, matching André smile for smile, and says "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> CW: copious amounts of spit, deep-throating, mild breathplay, fucking in cars, marking -- kind of? Established sexual relationship, where one partner is ok with the other one pushing some of their boundaries during sex (mostly in a physical capacity way), handsy behavior and physical maneuvering that can be read as having power dynamics, kink that isn't clearly prenegotiated. 
> 
> As is always the case, if I didn't warn for something you'd like a warning for, just let me know and I'll add it asap. /fingerguns


End file.
